


Halloween

by cheshirecat101



Category: Halloween - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Murder, Dark, Dark Sherlock, Halloween, High School, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Serial Killer Sherlock, Sexual Assault, Stabbing, Stalking, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is six years old, he kills his brother and gets locked away indefinitely. Fifteen years later, he breaks out and returns to his hometown on the anniversary of the murder, Halloween night. Crossover with the 1978 version of Halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> So I have this problem where I really love serial killer Sherlock, and I also really love classic horror movies, and sometimes the two cross over in my mind and I get things like this. Which was a bear of a project, in the end, and I didn't really realize what I was getting myself into. But it's done now, and I can stop feeling the urge to check under my bed when I go to sleep at night. Though, quite honestly, it's tempting to cross over more horror movies with Sherlock. Maybe when I have more time. In case you really want to get in the spirit of things, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iP-jYiuDD9g) is the Halloween Theme Song for you to listen to, and I hope you enjoy!

It had felt so good.

Each detail of it was seared into his memory, every loving moment archived so he could run it over and over again in his head when he was alone in his cell, eyes closed as his hands went through the same motions from all those years ago.

Up the stairs first. He had watched Neil leave just moments before, leaving the house quickly because this was their custom, a quick rendezvous before they both went back to their lives as if nothing ever happened. He’d wanted to catch Neil too, but that hadn’t been an option. Neil would be messy. Neil was much bigger than him. Neil would put up a fight. Neil would scream. The whole point of this was quiet, quiet, quiet. Well, that wasn’t really the point, but it was part of it. He needed this to be quiet.

So up the stairs, slowly, one at a time. The knife was solid, heavy, big in his still small hand. Somehow the mask just felt right over his face, not as a means to protect his identity, but as a means to transform. A different face for the different person he was about to become. It just felt…right. Down the hall. The bedroom door was open. Mycroft stood by the window, still naked as he watched Neil hurry away, but he turned a moment later at the steps behind him.

“Sherlock, what are you—” The words died in his throat at the first movement of the knife, a clean arc into his chest, a deep plunge before it was pulled back again, then driven in and in and in and in and in and in and in—

He lost count of the stab wounds. There’d been at least in the double digits by the time Mycroft stopped screaming, and even after that he’d just kept going for a minute, losing himself in the clean slide of the blade into flesh, in the force applied to push it in and pull it back out again. Eventually, though, he tired, and there were headlights in the window.

Back down the stairs. The door was open for the warm night, just the screen left, and he pushed it open, hearing it snap back against the frame as he walked slowly, calmly down the steps. He felt so calm at the moment, the sick anger in his stomach fading now that it was done. Now that the evidence was all over his hands and clothes and the blade he still held in his hands.

His parents were there, about to walk into the house, but stopped as he slipped the mask back off.   
“Sherlock?” his mother asked, her tone in a delicate balance between sanity and astonishment over the implications of his state. His only answer, given while looking back at her with pale eyes, was a small, pleased smile. Killing felt good. It quieted the turbulent landscapes of his mind, soothing them into submission as he focused solely on the sensation, on the rush of elation that came from snuffing out a human life. And he wanted to do it again.

But that had been the only time. He’d been put in a cell and hardly allowed to leave, certainly never allowed to go into the outdoors that beckoned from the one window of his cell. It didn’t feel good to be here. He didn’t like it at all. They all looked at him funny and called him names when they thought no one else was paying attention, and he was supposed to take pills on a daily basis that made his head fuzzy and made it hard for him to think. They caught him spitting them underneath his mattress and started injecting them instead, not giving him an opportunity to disobey. It was sometime around when the injections started that Greg started to visit him.

Greg was dull. He was a doctor, he said, and he was supposed to make him better. How, exactly? There was nothing wrong with him. He was perfectly fine. The only thing that was wrong was that he couldn’t get outside and try it again. See if all the noise in his head could be quieted in the same way it was before. With Mycroft’s blood all over his hands, slippery and darker than he’d expected, staining the costume he’d been wearing for Halloween. Greg asked him about that a lot. Asked him about that night, and what happened. He didn’t give Greg any answers, didn’t give him anything at all. There was no point in speaking to him, it would go nowhere and he didn’t find Greg interesting enough to actually talk to. No one was interesting enough for him to talk to, no matter how many doctors and psychologists and psychiatrists and therapists they paraded in front of him, Greg always coming back whenever the latest one was through.

They played this game for years. Fifteen, in fact. And Greg always came back and tried to ask him the same questions, though his voice was tired now, his hair silver, and his back bent from the strain that time had put on him.

“You seem excited today,” Greg commented one day. “Is that because tomorrow is the anniversary?”

Fifteen years. Fifteen Halloweens that he’d missed. Not this time. Oh no, not this time. Though he wasn’t about to tell Greg about that. He kept his lips sealed, staring back at Greg with blank eyes.

Greg sighed heavily. “Right then. I’m just going to assume. Important holiday for you, I guess. If you even care about what you did.” His eyes turned a touch steely, staring directly back at him. “And I know you don’t.”

More silence. He started cataloguing the shades of silver in Greg’s hair to entertain himself. Excited as he was, these meetings were just as dull and uneventful as ever.

“Alright, Sherlock. I’ll leave you be, then, so you can go back to staring at the wall. Don’t get too excited or they’ll have to sedate you again,” Greg said, standing up from his chair outside the cell. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the transfer.”  
He gave him a small little smile, the only one he ever had, and Greg nearly flinched back just from the shock of it. Greg stared at him for a minute, brow dropped low over his eyes in concern, and then started heading out, casting occasional glances back at him before he was out of sight. Greg didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow. That they weren’t going to talk then, or ever again. He was done with these silly non conversations and the syringes and the whispers about him and the looks he got from everyone in this place. But mostly he was done with being trapped, being caged like some kind of dangerous creature being held back for the public’s sake. He wanted to be free. He wanted to kill.

So tomorrow, when the transport came, he was going to make sure that he got away. They were unprepared for him, and he’d be able to escape with relative ease, as long as they were as stupid as he assumed. If they were similar at all to Greg, then this would be easy.

And in the end, it was.

***

“What do you mean, you’re both babysitting?”

“It’s a very simple concept, Jim, I assure you,” John said, throwing a smile at him.

Jim frowned, still continuing to walk backwards in front of John and Molly on the pavement in a way that made John distinctly nervous. “But it’s Halloween,” he said, his frown bordering the edge of a pout. “You’re supposed to have fun plans, not be babysitting children.”

“I already promised the Turners that I’d watch Lindsey,” Molly said, pulling her books tighter to her chest.

John gave her a look. “Oh please, you said Irene might be over. That hardly counts.”

Jim grinned as Molly flushed and adjusted her books again, her ponytail swaying slightly as she walked. “I said might,” she said defensively, but the blush she was sporting made it hard to defend that position. “And of course Lindsey would be my priority.”

“No, what’s going to happen is you’re going to call me at some point and beg me to take her for a little while so you and Irene can have some alone time,” John said, amused, then turned his eyes to Jim. “You’re about to trip.”

Jim turned back the proper way, jumping over the tree root that would have easily taken him out, and John managed to relax a bit, the line of his shoulders smoothing out. Jim caught the change, giving him a smile with a spark in his eyes that John instantly turned away from, clearing his throat. Molly was in the middle of saying something that he only caught the tail end of.

“—and it would only be for a little while anyway.” She paused, biting her lip. “If it happened at all. She might be grounded.”

“Grounded just means she’ll sneak out the window instead, and I doubt the wet hand towel she has for a father will even try to stop her,” Jim drawled lazily, sliding his hands into his pockets. He was the only one not carrying a bag or books, and John once again envied him the genius that allowed him to do the least amount of work possible in class and still receive the highest marks.

“Oh come on, he’s not a hand towel,” he said, giving Jim a look that Jim responded to with a grin. “Imagine having Irene for a daughter, how on earth would you be able to manage her?”  
“She’s not that bad!” Molly protested.  
“She’s almost as much of a menace to society as Jim and you know it.”

Jim giggled at that. “You should have seen us before we met the two of you,” he said, giving John a wink that John tried to pretend he didn’t blush slightly at. “I’ve never seen Irene so well behaved. You put quite the leash on her, Molly.”  
“There’s no leashes on anyone,” Molly mumbled, sporting impressively red cheeks.

Jim completely ignored her, continuing, “And I’ve been an angel since I met you, isn’t that right, Johnny boy?”

John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “If this is your definition of angelic behavior, I’m honestly frightened to think about how you were before.”

“Saintly,” Jim said with a grin, and John shook his head, a smile slowly breaking out over his lips.

“This is me,” Molly said abruptly, interrupting the few seconds of eye contact between the two of them. They stopped walking at the corner where Molly’s street intersected with this one. “So I’ll see you later, John?”

“I’ll make sure Tommy knows he might have a playmate,” John said, and Molly blushed as she turned away, heading down the street with a little wave. He and Jim started walking again, Jim setting a more leisurely pace despite John’s clear desire to make it home a little faster.

“Sure you can’t get out of babysitting tonight?” Jim asked after a minute of companionable silence.

“Why, planning on asking me to another one of those terrible parties you keep trying to get me to attend?” John asked, a laugh in his voice. “I already made a commitment, Jim, I’m not backing out of it now.”

Jim pouted, seeming defeated for a moment before popping back into a smile. “So maybe I’ll stop by for a visit.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do with your night,” John said, though he was smiling. “Besides, you hate children.”

“You’ve never seen me around children, how do you know I hate them?”

John laughed, looking over at him. “I know you. Very well, I like to think. And I can’t see you getting along with children. You’re too much of one.”

“Ooh, wandering into insults now, Johnny boy?” Jim gave him a smile, his eyes sparking up in that way that had John’s smile growing wider. “Aren’t you supposed to be the nice little golden boy?”

“You call me that, that doesn’t mean it’s accurate.”

Jim smiled, sliding to stand in front of John and stopping him with a hand to the chest. “Oh, but isn’t it true, pet?” he asked, and shifted closer to him, their chests nearly touching. John tried to pretend his heart didn’t speed up at the suddenly increased proximity, but Jim’s smirk seemed to indicate that he could feel it with his hand. He dropped his voice a bit lower, into something bordering the edge of sultry. “Always the well-behaved little golden boy? You must get so _bored._ I could help with that, you know. Spice things up a bit.”

John didn’t respond for a minute, caught in the heatedly focused brown gaze Jim had trained on him, his own blue eyes shifting between Jim’s as he tried to pull his gaze away. Yeah, okay, he couldn’t quite claim ‘straight’ when Jim was involved. Jim didn’t care what he claimed, and it wasn’t exactly true, either. He wasn’t sure what to label himself as, at the moment, but considering he’d never actually dated any men and Jim hitting on him made him nervous in a distinctly virginal way despite his previous experience with girls, gay didn’t exactly fit, but neither did straight. And as much as he liked Jim, he called up the same sickly anxious feeling he’d had the first time he slept with a girl, and at the moment, he wasn’t ready to face that.

So he gently pushed Jim away by the shoulders, giving him a slightly rueful smile at the same time. “Sorry, but I think I’ll stick to my boring life for the time being,” he said. “But if I need any excitement, I know who to turn to.”

“Just keep it in mind,” Jim said with a wink, smiling despite the rejection. He always smiled whenever John rejected him, and never let it stop him, either. He’d ease up for a day, then go straight back to the winking and flirting and slowly chipping away at John’s reluctance. He seemed convinced that one of these days he was actually going to get something for his trouble, and if John was being honest, he was probably right. Just not today.

John smiled, turning his head away to avoid the far too enticing look Jim was giving him and looking back the way they came. He paused, brow furrowing, and Jim asked, “What is it?”

“That car,” John said, looking at the station wagon with the sticker on the side that he couldn’t read from this distance. It was slowly driving up the street, not far away, and the windows were thrown into a shade that made it difficult to see inside. “It was parked outside the school earlier, I swear.”

Jim followed his gaze, both of them watching the car as it went by, moving a little faster though it was still too hard to see inside of it, then shrugged. “Small town. Can’t read the side panel, could be a lawnscaping company come to do a house that also works at the school.”

John looked in the direction the car had gone in for a minute more before shaking himself out of it and turning back, smiling at Jim. “Right,” he said, and Jim smiled back at him.   
“Don’t tell me I have competition, Johnny,” he said. “I thought I was your only stalker.”

John laughed, Jim’s goal judging by how his smile widened. “Yeah, I think you’re unchallenged on that one, Jim,” he said, starting to walk again, and Jim followed. “But I’m flattered that you’re jealous.”  
“Not jealous,” Jim said with faux affrontedness. “Just a tiny bit possessive.”

“Oh, because that’s clearly such a different thing,” John said, amused.

They continued on like this as they walked down the street, and neither of them noticed the station wagon that was parked way up the street from them, the driver still inside.

***

He’d visited the house first.

It was strange, seeing the place that had started it all. It was closed off, a ‘for sale’ sign out on the front lawn that looked like it’d been there for quite a while. Of course. No one wanted to buy the site of a ‘tragedy’, and the fifteen years that had passed had probably only made the legend stronger. He wondered if he was a tale meant to scare children now. The haunted Holmes house, where not even the bravest children went because the infamous Sherlock Holmes, a boogeyman in his own right, would get them. The thought nearly made him smile as he went up the steps, quickly picking the lock and slipping inside.

It was empty now, but completely untouched. It seemed that even the real estate agents didn’t want to go in to clean it, as a piss poor job had been done of it, and not recently judging by the dust patterns. He didn’t waste time, heading straight up the stairs and towards Mycroft’s room, pausing as he reached the doorway to take a slow, deep breath. Then he stepped in.  

There was a special quality in the air here, something both heavy and freeing. The air in the room seemed to carry the gravity of what had been done here, and he crouched down to lovingly run a hand over the blood stains still barely visible through a fresh coat of wood stain. They could try to cover it up all they liked; what had happened was written into the very fabric of the place, and couldn’t be erased no matter how hard they pulled at the stitching. Just like it was in him. Written across his soul for anyone who cared to look. This had been what changed him, what made him into what he really was. It freed him. Really, in an ironic way he had Mycroft to thank for that. Mycroft and his dirty, illicit ways, the sin he participated in regularly and with no remorse, Neil his compatriot in a tangle of sweaty limbs and panting breaths. He still regretted not being able to kill Neil. It would have rounded out the set, punished them both.

He sighed, his breath stirring the dust motes floating in the sunshine slanting through the blinds. Alright. Time to leave before anyone decided to come looking for him. Though that wouldn’t be for a while yet. He’d only escaped late last night, and while certain calls could be made to the town to warn of his possible presence, it’d still take them time and manpower they didn’t have to track him down. He was safe, for the time being, and a little time was all he needed to make sure they wouldn’t be able to find him again.

He left the house with a new sense of purpose, a sort of excitement putting a bounce in his step. It felt so good to be back here, to hold the memory of that night and the way it had felt to have Mycroft’s life slipping through his fingers. He hadn’t felt this alive since…well, since it happened. Taking life was what made him feel alive, and he’d only been able to do it once before. Years ago. Oh, but he could change that. There was nothing stopping him from doing it again, here, tonight. On the anniversary. But who to kill? It couldn’t be just anyone. He’d been punishing Mycroft when he did it, he had to punish someone else as well. He wasn’t about to kill someone with no purpose. But how exactly was he going to find a victim? Stalking at random and hoping for a hit wasn’t going to help. It was the thought that vexed him as he drove around his old neighborhood, not sure where he was headed for the time being.

And then he’d seen him.

Oh.

_Pretty_.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A smile that could and did light up the whole street, never mind a room. Younger than him, but only by a few years, it seemed. A student still. Walking with a friend, a girl, no doubt both on their way to school. He nearly slammed on the brakes right then and there. Something had gripped his heart and squeezed, a strange sort of fluttering starting in his stomach that he’d never felt before, his palms were sweaty, his pupils dilating in a sign of interest, and he couldn’t stop staring.

What the hell was this? He’d never felt like this before. It held hints of excitement and nervousness in it, but it wasn’t either of them. It mirrored what he’d read about…attraction. But that definitely wasn’t possible. He’d never been interested in anything even remotely tied to either romance or sexuality. True, he’d been locked away for fifteen years, but he’d had plenty of reading material, and they’d even given him porn as a psychological test to see if he’d have any physiological reactions. They’d been sadly disappointed on that count. He had absolutely no interest in affairs of the flesh, and wanted nothing to do with the people like Mycroft who engaged in such things. It was impure. Wrong.

So what the hell was this? He’d never had any sort of interest in forming a connection with another human being, and yet as soon as he saw this boy both his body and heart had reacted, leaving his mind entirely out of the equation and at a loss for what to do. What _was_ he supposed to do? He was having some sort of—feeling for him, but what was he supposed to do about it? Was he supposed to kill him? No, currently he didn’t have a reason to kill him.  Was he supposed to interact with him somehow? His heart called out at that thought, giving a painful twinge in his chest. Yes, he wanted that very much. But how to go about it?

He ended up stalking him, unsure of what else to do. He followed the boy and his friend to the high school and parked on the street outside, in the position to see into one of the classrooms. Luckily, it was one that the boy entered later in the day, almost at the end of school day. He had a clear view of him, sitting in the back of class and dutifully taking notes, occasionally wandering into doodles and answering the teacher when he was called on.

This didn’t help any. Watching the boy only made the feelings in his chest and body intensify. Because honestly, he was perfect. There was something about the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he smiled. He was beautiful. And, it seemed, clean, pure. Untouched in a way that he liked. He was just…different. There was no way to explain it, describe it, qualify or quantify it.

It drove him a bit insane, actually. Feelings had no place in his world of logic and reason, and he’d never had them like this before. Truth be told, he hadn’t had many before. Aside from that lovely flood of peace and calmness that came when Mycroft was lying on the floor, looking up at him with dead eyes after he’d breathed his last gasp. True, there had been the anger that fueled the attack, and of course he’d had irritation at the doctors and scientists and at Greg when he came to bother and pester him and engage in boring conversations and experiments that went nowhere. Other than that, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt any real emotion. Oh, no, not true, he’d felt pleasure the night before his escape, knowing what was coming. So he did experience emotions. But he’d never quite experienced them like this.

When school let out he was sure to find the boy again, this time finding him with two other people, the girl from this morning and a new boy, someone he immediately disliked. It was the way that he acted around _his_ boy, the looks he gave him, the way his face lit up when he talked to him. The only good thing that this new boy did was give him a name for the object of his attentions. He overheard it, when they were talking and laughing and he was driving slowly far behind them, far enough away that they wouldn’t see him but close enough that he could hear their loud, excited voices.

_John_.

So that was the name of the boy that seemed to have burned his way into his brain. John. He liked it. A good, strong sounding name. _John_. He found himself repeating it over and over in his head as he followed them, his eyes trained the entire time on John and John alone. That was, until the other boy—Jim, was it? He thought that was what John had called him—dared to step in front of John and put his hand on him. Actually physically touch him, and then slide in close, like this was all okay. Like John was his in some way.

What had previously been a fluttering in his stomach turned into a heated rage, twisting tight the longer Jim stayed near John. He could only imagine what he was saying to him, could nearly feel the heat of Jim’s gaze from this distance. What right did Jim have to touch John? Who gave him permission to do that? Certainly not John, since he’d clearly been surprised by it. But if John actually wanted something with Jim…well, he’d have to kill them both for being impure. Tainted.

But as he was watching, John did the most amazing thing; he reached up, and pushed Jim away. Gently, but still. The message was still there. He was still pure, and he wouldn’t have to kill him. Jim, though, could be his release for the night. Him and the girl that had been with them earlier, if she proved to be the same as Jim. They could be his targets, for being so close to John, for acting so familiar with him, for not realizing what kind of treasure they were in the presence of. Yes, yes, this would work. He could feel his back and shoulders relaxing at the thought, though maybe that was because for a minute, just a minute, he had John’s full attention on him, those pretty blue eyes watching him as he slowly drove past.

God, why did it feel so good to have his attention, even for such a fleeting period of time? Even if John had no idea who he was? Oh, but he would know. There was an excitement brewing in his stomach, something nearly electric in its intensity. He could get closer to John. Close enough to fully see him, to _touch_ him even. To have him in his grasp, unable to run. Knowing him, knowing his true face. Oh god. The very thought had his pulse picking up speed, his breathing sounding ragged to even his own ears. Tonight. Yes. He had a few preparations to make, a few items to procure first, but then he’d see him again. Have him.

***

It was slipping on towards early evening when Greg found himself outside of the old Holmes house, staring up at shuttered windows and a bleak exterior. He’d seen photographs of it before, especially of the crime scene, but he’d never seen it in person. They’d shown those same photos to Sherlock, and anytime he saw his brother’s body or the room that he’d killed him in, the pleasure centers of his brain lit up like Christmas trees. That had been one of many things that had convinced Greg that he wasn’t dealing with someone who was human. Not anymore. Maybe not ever, considering his first and only kill had been at the age of six.

He took a drag on his cigarette, blowing out smoke as he looked at the door to the place, honestly surprised that the exterior of the house was kept in any kind of shape. It looked like the kind of house that kids would love to throw rocks at, but then again, maybe they were afraid to. Everyone in this town must have known what happened here, and no doubt the story of Sherlock Holmes was a scare tactic, a warning for kids to stay away or a fright to get them to behave properly. So more likely the kids were terrified of throwing anything at this house, scared of waking up some ancient ghost or bringing the wrath of a locked up killer down on their heads, when in truth, they’d had nothing to fear until now. Until today.

“You must be the doctor that called me. Greg Lestrade, right?”

He turned, blowing out a stream of smoke. “And you must be Sally Donovan,” he said, offering his hand to the woman who’d appeared. “I appreciate you taking the time to come out here, Captain.”

“Please, you can call me Sally,” she said, releasing his hand again, and turned to look at the house. “Looks sad, doesn’t it? They’ve been trying to get someone interested for ages, but as soon as a buyer gets here someone tells them about what happened and they get spooked.” She paused, studying him for a moment, her face grim. “So he really escaped?”

Greg nodded, taking another drag. “Late last night when they were trying to transport him. We’re working on getting the FBI involved, but for the moment, it’s only your police department.”

“And you think he came back here? Why wouldn’t he make a break for somewhere you wouldn’t expect? Coming back here is a bit predictable."

“Yeah, and since he’s a genius I’d usually say that that’s exactly what he’d do. But considering tonight’s the anniversary, I think he’d have to stop here first. Pay tribute to what he did.” He dropped the cigarette on the pavement, grinding it out with his heel. “I’m just afraid that he’s going to celebrate the anniversary in a more literal way.”

“You mean he’s going to kill again,” she stated, and he nodded. “Shouldn’t we let everyone know, then? Prepare them?”  
“That’d only cause a massive panic, and that’d play right into him. Give him frightened people who make mistakes and are easy to pick off.”

She looked at him for a minute, then said, “So what exactly do you suggest we do? I don’t have enough officers to have them patrol the entire town looking for anything at all suspicious.”

“No, he’s going to come back here,” Greg said firmly. “Even if he’s already been, I know he’ll be back. He has to properly pay tribute to what happened. So I’m proposing a stake out, you and me and maybe an officer or two if you want them. Watch the house tonight and see if he comes back.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Greg paused a moment, taking a deep breath that he released in a slow exhale. “Then he’s already gone.”

***

“I knew it,” John said when he opened the door to find Molly standing on the other side, Lindsey with her.

Molly instantly flushed and stammered, “W-Well, Irene managed to get out for the night and you did say it’d be okay—”

“Of course it’s okay, Molly.” He bent down to get closer to Lindsey’s height, smiling at her. “Tommy’s in the dining room and we’re about to carve the pumpkin, if you want to head in I’ll be in in just a minute.”

“Okay!” she said brightly, and ran off to join Tommy.

He straightened up again, his smile slipping into something slightly smugger. “So how long is Irene going to be over?”

“Well I don’t know,” Molly said, twisting her fingers together as she looked at her hands. “I thought maybe I could call you when she left. It wouldn’t be too late, of course! Just a little while.”

“And by a little while you mean a few hours while you and Irene get cozy upstairs,” he said with a smile, and Molly’s blush deepened.

“We’re just going to hang out…” she murmured, and he laughed, saying, “Molly, it’s me, you don’t have to lie to me. Go have fun with your girlfriend, alright? It’s Halloween, you deserve a treat.”

She managed a brief moment of eye contact with him, smiling. “Thank you, John.”

“Of course. Now go on, I’m sure she’ll be waiting for you rather impatiently,” he said, and she left with a small wave to him and steps quickened by excitement. He smiled, shaking his head as he closed the door, and headed into the dining room.

Pumpkin carving was just as much of a mess as he’d thought it would be, but the kids had fun with it and produced a halfway decent pumpkin that he put a candle in and kept on the dining room table, facing the window. The kids wanted to watch a “scary” movie so he put on Hocus Pocus for them and had gone into the kitchen to make some popcorn when his cellphone rang.

“Hello?” he asked after picking it up.  
“Trick or treat, Johnny boy!”

He smiled, leaning against the counter. “Hi, Jim. Decided I couldn’t babysit in peace?”

“More like I decided to relieve your boredom,” Jim answered, a grin in his voice. “Thought I’d pop over for a visit, if that’s alright.”

“Course it is. Molly actually just came over to drop of Lindsey a little while ago.”

Jim giggled. “Oh, of _course_ she did. I take it Irene got out of the house, then.”

“Somehow,” John said, keeping an eye on the popcorn maker to make sure nothing was burning. “So they’ll both be busy for a while.”

“Ooh, maybe I’ll go over there first and play a trick on them first.”

“Oh, come on Jim, don’t,” John said instantly.

He could hear the pout in Jim’s voice as he said, “You’re always no fun, Johnny boy. I’m still going to do it. I’ll see you in a little while, love.”

The line clicked dead before John could reply at all, and he was smiling even as he shook his head, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Despite how much of a pain Jim could be, his conversations with him always left a smile on his face, and he wondered how soon it would be until his resolve finally broke and he let Jim take him out. Soon, no doubt, though he didn’t know when. Oh well, it wasn’t a question for tonight. Right now he had kids to take care of, and he finished the popcorn and carried it back into the living room, settling down on the couch with the kids to watch the movie.

“John, I saw the boogeyman,” Tommy said, curled up close by his side, and pointed at the window almost like he was scared of what was out there.

John cast a glance over at it, seeing the house across the street that Molly was in, but not seeing anyone out on the street. “I don’t see anyone, Tommy,” he said, turning back to him.

“No, he was really there,” Tommy insisted. “He was really tall and pale and I think he had a mask on because his face looked funny.”

John usually would have dismissed it as a flight of childhood fancy, something silly, but Tommy looked genuinely scared. Like he had actually seen something frightening out in the dark night, and only assigned it the label of boogeyman because he didn’t know what else to call it. Of course, something frightening to a kid could be something as simple as a stranger with facial scarring or something, but telling them that what’d they’d seen wasn’t real only led to more problems. Better to get an opportunity to explain to them that there was nothing to be afraid of, erase some of that easy fear that came during childhood.

“Okay, Tommy, if you see him again, let me know, alright?” he said, and Tommy nodded quickly before ducking down again so the back of his head couldn’t be seen from the window.

John turned back to the movie, watching Tommy to make sure he calmed down during the course of it, but he found himself continually looking back towards the window, half expecting to see the boogeyman when he looked out.

***

He was excited. Couldn’t ever remember being this excited, actually, though he likened it to the emotion most children experienced on Christmas morning. Oh! It was like when he received his first chemistry kit. That was it. Only ten times better, and added to by the fluttering in his stomach produced by just seeing the house that John was currently occupying, catching glimpses of him through the window. Glimpses weren’t going to satisfy him soon, but for now they were enough, as he sat in the car and watched intently. John looked so innocent. So sweet, taking care of a kid and laughing and playing with him, looking right at home and very at ease. Just seeing John happy, smiling, caused that funny feeling in his chest to return, like something was playfully squeezing his heart. He didn’t understand it. He hadn’t technically met John, he’d never actually interacted with him, and yet his emotional reactions were tied to him. If John looked happy like he did now, then he was happy as well, but if someone dared to touch him…he nearly choked on the amount of anger that thought brought with it, his hand reflexively tightening and untightening on the steering wheel. Yes. Somehow, in such a short time, he’d begun to think of John as his. Sort of like his dog, Redbeard, had once been his, but not in quite the same way. John wasn’t a pet. But he didn’t honestly know what he was.

The girl from earlier came to the house, bringing the girl she’d been babysitting with her. He read their lips during the conversation, and discovered 1) that her name was Molly, 2) that she had a girlfriend, Irene, that was coming over, and 3) that John was now going to be responsible for both children so Molly could be irresponsible. The subtext in their conversation was hardly subtext at all, the message clear; Molly and Irene were just like Mycroft, and as such, he could kill them. Perfect.

He wanted to kill them just for being close to John anyway, just for being so familiar with him, but this was better. This gave him an actual reason to do it that would satisfy him immensely on two separate levels, the head as well as the heart. He watched Molly as she crossed the street again, coming so close to him without knowing it, and continued into the house. A minute later, he could see a light go on upstairs, and her silhouette in the window. Irene hadn’t arrived yet, he knew that from watching the two houses. As fixed as his eyes had been on John, he’d still been aware of what was going on around him, and no one but Molly and John had been in the two houses. Molly first, then.

He clutched the knife in the passenger seat tightly in his fist, finally opening his door and getting out of the car. He was quiet when he shut it again, the knife tucked away so he wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention if they happened to be looking right now, and  he glanced around at the quiet street before heading towards the house. No one to see, no one to notice, no one to help. Exactly the way that he liked it.

The back door was unlocked when he tried it, and he slipped in silently, gently pulling it shut behind himself. The house itself was quiet, nearly deathly silent, the only noises the slight sounds from upstairs and the soft tick of the clock in the living room when he went down the hall that led to the stairs. The upstairs hall light and one lamp in the living room were the only two lights he could see on, and he clicked off the living room light before beginning to make his way upstairs, sticking to the edges of the staircase, the less worn parts that would make less noise. As a result, his ascent was silent, and he found himself slowly rounding the corner of the balcony made by the railing. He paused there, looking around for a moment, his senses narrowed in focus to only the feeling of his heart in his chest, pounding out an enthusiastic rhythm out of the excitement and anticipation that had seized his body. The rest of the rooms around him were dark, quiet, but directly ahead there was light peeking out from around the partially closed door, and he could hear soft humming and some rustling.

One. Two. Three. Four steps, and he spread his hand across the door to push it open. Molly was directly in front of him, her back to him as she stripped, at this point left in a silky cami and a pair of lace edged panties. Preparing for Irene, no doubt. He paused a moment, his mind drifting into thoughts of John in lace and silk, and he didn’t catch what was happening until Molly had already turned, catching sight of him.

There was a breathless moment, a pause in which their eyes connected and he knew she realized what was about to happen. And then she tried to scream and he pulled out the knife.

He won.

In and in and in and in and in and in—he lost himself in the slide of the blade in her flesh, in the clean and easy way it sheathed itself inside of her. It was almost obscene, how good it felt. In and out and again and again. He didn’t stop until the blade was drenched in her blood, christened with its first kill and prepared for more, ready for the next. He didn’t lose control of himself like he had with Mycroft. No, he was very in control of himself, in control of his actions, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop after just a few thrusts. It just felt too _good_ to stop, that same blissfully calm feeling from Mycroft’s death coming back again and enveloping him in a comfortable warmth. Everything about it was lovely, from the warm, wet blood on his hands that was ruining the silk of her clothes, to the way she looked, head to the side and her eyes glassy. He just wanted to stay there, rubbing his hands in her blood, savoring the sensations, reveling in the feeling of killing again. But his ears picked up the sound of a door closing downstairs, then a call of, “Molly?”

Irene, then. Good, she was next in line.

Molly had fallen back on the bed and he pulled back now, almost disappointed that he was wearing dark colors that didn’t show her blood, clothes he’d stolen at the first available opportunity to disguise the place he’d escaped from. He moved her body, positioning her on the bed and pulling the comforter up over her so it looked like she was just lying in bed, possibly asleep. One last, loving glance cast over the mess he’d made of her abdomen, then the comforter covered her from sight and he moved away, going to the wall by the door and pressing himself against it, waiting. Patiently waiting, as he listened to the steady steps approaching the bedroom, the click of heels on a hard wood floor.

Click. Click. Click. Click. A pause as the door was pushed fully open, and then a woman with red hair stepped into the room, walking past where he was hidden by the door. Irene.

“Did you fall asleep waiting, or is this just a present?” she asked, a layer of sin in her tone, and shrugged off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He pulled away from the wall, taking a silent step forward. Waiting. Patiently waiting.

He could see it in her face, as she drew closer to the bed. The dawning realization, the growing feeling that something was very wrong, that she’d missed something essential. And then, oh, there it was, and wasn’t it so sweet? That look of horror when she was close enough to see the blood, an expression that reminded him of Mycroft’s confused horror when he’d first stabbed him. It was delicious in a way, something that fed the rush that came with the realization of exactly how much power he had over the situation, over everyone involved. Over everything.

He waited until she pulled back the covers. There was an audible gasp, a sharp inhale as she covered her mouth with her hand. “No no no, no, Molly, no—” she kept up in a stream, the words pouring out at the same time as tears started bubbling up, and he silently padded forward for the last few steps, grabbed the scarf around her neck, and yanked it tight.

In an instant she was gasping for air, scratching at the material to try and get it off, trying to turn to catch sight of her attacker. He kept a firm hold of her, the scarf balled up in his fists and pulled taut over her throat to choke her, his arms tensed along with his hands as his muscles worked.

She fought, oh yes, she fought, and that in itself was rewarding, a rush as she struggled feebly against him, failing, slowly failing. She twisted and writhed in his grip, tried to hit him, even landed a few blows that only served to make him sharply yank the scarf tight again in anger. Slowly, though, the fight began to die out, her limbs beginning to fail as her oxygen starved brain started to give up the consciousness it had so desperately been holding onto. Slowly, so slowly, she began to slip to the floor, and he held the scarf tight as he eased her down, carefully letting her drop but keeping the pressure on her windpipe the whole time. He kept it like that for a minute even after she slipped into unconsciousness, just to make sure that she was really dead. Two fingers pressed to the pulse point on her neck confirmed it, and he pulled back, his eyes cold as he stood straight again, looking down at her.

His breathing was heavy, loud in the silent room as he was filled with a rush of pride and pleasure, a tangible swelling in his chest. He felt powerful, just, _right_. These people had deserved to die, and he’d performed that duty. Killed them as punishment for what they’d done wrong. Promiscuity was the sin that he was curing them of.

He stayed like that for a minute, just breathing and looking at both her body and the body in the bed, and then headed back out into the hallway. He had a few things to do before he could move on to the most important person. Before he could see the one person that really mattered in all of this, the person that he’d kill for. _John_.

***

It didn’t take Jim long at all to get to the house Molly was babysitting in, just a short walk from his own house down a darkened street. The last of the trick-or-treaters were skipping back home, the older kids the only ones out this late. He passed some people he knew from school but didn’t bother to stop, most of them younger than him and the ones that were his age far too boring to talk to. There was a reason he only hung out with Molly, Irene, and John. All of them were much more interesting than anyone in their school. Molly was a pleasant surprise, sweet and shy but occasionally coming out with a fearsome fire when he least expected it. Irene was the one closest to him in intelligence, and rather formidable besides in the most fascinating way. And John…well, John was a conductor of light. John made him better, smarter, without even meaning to. He was also a supposed ‘good influence’ on him, keeping him away from some of the less than legal activities he could be doing. And besides that, John was fascinating in what he hid under the surface, the danger covered by jumpers and collared shirts. The part of him that wanted to go into the military, hidden by the caring and compassionate doctor.

There were a lot of reasons why he liked John, and he mused about them as he kicked a stone on the ground as he walked. He was on his way to visit John, after all, continually hoping that John’s waning resistance would finally break and he’d get what he wanted. At least a date. Just one, and he was sure he could win him over. And eventually, John would give that to him. He smiled as he pulled to a stop in front of the house, casting a glance across the street at the house that John was in. He could see him sitting on the couch with the kids, ever a good babysitter. How cute.

He turned back to the house Molly and Irene were in, watching as the light in the bedroom went out. Oh good, he’d be able to surprise them in the middle of things. He smiled, slinking around the house to the backdoor, slipping inside and shutting it softly behind himself. He could hear noises upstairs, what honestly sounded like something heavy being moved, much to his confusion. Were they moving around the furniture or something? Why on earth would they do that?

He went around to the stairs, quietly creeping up them and making sure to make as little noise as possible, though under the sound of that heavy dragging, they probably wouldn’t be able to hear a damn thing. He rounded the corner of the balcony, looking towards the bedroom, and stopped in his tracks. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god—

Instead of the closed bedroom door that he’d expected, he found a partially open door with a gap that he could see through into the room. Irene and Molly were stretched out horizontally on the bed as he’d expected, but not at all in the wrestling match they should have been in. Instead, he could see blood spread across Molly’s abdomen, and Irene’s open, glassy eyes. And in the room, moving whatever heavy object he’d been hearing, was someone bent over that he could only see the back of. The killer.

He backed up from the room as quietly as he could, walking backwards until he reached the stairs, at which point he went forward down them, keeping his head turned so that he could keep an eye on that dreadful room with the door partially open. Silent, silent, so silent, as he had to be. Because there was still a monster upstairs, and monsters could always hear you breathing. He moved into the kitchen, holding still in the darkness there and covering his mouth with his hand, covering up his breathing and quieting it even though he didn’t have to, not here. Get out, he had to get out. But he was frozen, mind reeling at what he’d seen. Dead. They were really, completely dead, killed by some murderer for some unknown reason. A rapist, maybe? Or just a psychopath that had no good reason to do it.

Dead. He didn’t know how long he stood there, five, ten minutes. Who knew. Too long, for certain. He should have been running. At least he knew that John was alright. But that meant that John could be the next target, could be next on the killer’s list, along with the kids. He had to get them out before anything else happened. He was shaking slightly, body unable to handle the frightened and confused signals that his brain was sending him. Almost quietly, however, his ears picked up the sound of a door opening, the front if he was right. The killer leaving? Or maybe an accomplice coming in. Either way, he didn’t want to be here to find out. He needed to get out, and now.

Slowly, his frozen muscles began to work, his legs guiding him to the backdoor and helping him slip out of it, shutting it again behind himself silently. He crept out into the yard, taking a look around the corner into the front yard to make sure that everything was clear before he quickly darted across the street to the other house. He had to warn John. Had to get him out. Now, before the killer struck again.

***

John was starting to get worried, peeking out the curtains occasionally to look at the house across the street. Jim should have been here by now, and he hadn’t heard anything from Irene or Molly. He could see Irene’s car parked out front, explaining the silence from them, but Jim was the one that was worrying him at the moment. Usually he wouldn’t be concerned, but something felt off tonight. Maybe it was just Tommy’s talk about the boogeyman getting to him, feeding some long forgotten childhood fear. Whatever it was, it was making him nervous, continually getting up from the couch to look out the window, see if he could spot anything. He saw a light go off upstairs in the house, and turned away again, going back to the couch. A minute later, though, Tommy cast a glance back, his eyes going wide as he repeatedly hit John’s arm.

“What, Tommy, what is it?” he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. Tommy looked absolutely terrified, frightened out of his mind.

“I saw the boogeyman again, he was dragging something, look!” Tommy said insistently, and John turned to look out the window, a terrible sense of dread rising up in the back of his mind. But there was nothing there. No one at all. He felt an awful anxiety stirring in his stomach all the same, making it churn with a nervous sort of nausea that he couldn’t ignore if he tried. He looked back at Tommy, who still looked terrified, absolutely convinced of what he’d seen. He was feeling worse about this by the second.

“Are you absolutely sure you saw him again?” John said, and Tommy nodded adamantly, his eyes still wide in fear. Lindsey was looking at them, her little brow dropped in concern, and John sighed, hesitating for a moment before getting up and going to the window, pulling out his phone.

Calling Jim’s phone had no effect; he probably had it on silent so he could properly scare Irene and Molly without his location being given away by the noise of his ringtone first. Of course he did. He hesitated a minute, his thumb pausing above the call button before he tried Molly’s phone, knowing she was more likely to pick up than Irene. A pause, several rings, and then the call was picked up, but without a greeting on the other end.

“Hello? Molly?” he asked, brow furrowing. There was no response, and after a minute he became aware of heavy breathing on the other end of the line, and nothing more. His brow dropped lower, into true worry this time. “Molly?”

He waited, but there was nothing, and then the line clicked completely dead. He pulled his phone away from his ear, staring at it for a moment before his eyes went back to the house across the street. Something was definitely wrong. Had to be wrong, right? That wasn’t a normal phone call like Molly would do, not even something Jim would do if he had stolen her phone for the moment. He bit his lip, watching the house for a minute more. He had to go to the house. Just to look around, see what was going on. Otherwise the worry would eat at his stomach, slowly drive him insane, and anyway, it was better to go over and check and be wrong about it than not go and miss something important. Something bad.

“Tommy, Lindsey, I’m going to go across the street for a minute, alright?” he said, turning away from the window again. They both nodded, and he said, “I’m going to lock the front door. Don’t let anyone in that you don’t know.”

He went to the door, opening it and slipping out, his hand turning the lock with a quick flick of his wrist as he went past it. The door shut and securely locked—he tested the handle, yes, locked—he started across the street, unaware of the curtain that twitched in the upstairs bedroom of the house he was headed towards.

The front door was unlocked when he got there, open, and he entered the house, casting a glance around. The lamp in the living room was on, but that was about it, the hallway light and the lights upstairs completely off. He paused for a moment, looking around the downstairs but not moving to explore it before he started up the stairs, moving quietly for some unknown reason. It just felt like the right thing to do at the moment, like if he disturbed the silence something bad would happen, something awful. He didn’t have any rational way to explain the ugly dread lingering at the back of his skull but it was there all the same, keeping him company as he rounded the corner of the balcony, seeing the mostly closed door of the bedroom dead ahead. He took quiet, careful steps, nearly sneaking up on the room which was disturbingly silent. He’d expected something, some noise, something to show him what was going on, but there was nothing. Just flat, dead silence. And slowly, slowly he pushed the door to the room open, his hand splayed across it.   
Jesus Christ. Jesus bloody Christ. He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen by the sight in front of him. There was Molly, and there was Irene, the two of them lying side by side on the bed. Molly’s front was covered in blood, marks barely visible on Irene’s neck, both of them pale and bloodless, that special shade of skin tone reserved for corpses. The contrast between that and the blood covering Molly’s abdomen would have been pretty, under other circumstances. Now it was just…terrifying.

Dead. Completely and utterly dead. And positioned above them both, set against the headboard, was a cemetery headstone that bore the name ‘Mycroft Holmes’ and a death date from fifteen years ago. He backed up slowly from the sight, not sure where he was going but knowing that he couldn’t be here. Had to get out, had to call the police, had to find a way to breathe again because his lungs seemed to have seized up in his chest and he needed that air. One shuddered, shaky breath, then another. He hadn’t realized he was backed up against the railing, all the way out of the room, until it hit his lower back, the sensation of nearly falling prickling through him.

There were a few moments of breathless silence, a deathly spell of silence over the house.

Then he became aware, distantly, of a sound in the room next to the bedroom. Soft, almost inaudible. The soft movement of air, a steady inhale and shorter exhale. Someone was breathing next to him.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at the room next to the bedroom in time to see something truly awful. Someone was emerging from the darkness, their face covered in a hideous rubber mask, one of those cheap full face ones that you only wore if you were desperate or really needed to play a character. And this man, whoever he was, was playing the part of the killer, and John immediately jerked back from him as he saw the knife in the killer’s hand, stained in blood that he could only assume was Molly’s. Unfortunately, jerking back made him hit the railing and he tipped over, falling over the edge and tumbling down the stairs.

Pain blossomed throughout his body, focused mostly on his head and neck, lucky that nothing was broken. He was nearly knocked out, lying at the bottom of the stairs with his eyes squeezing open and shut again in an effort to stay conscious, head spinning as he became aware of a pain in his leg. Jesus Christ. Everything hurt and he was having trouble pulling himself back together, head swimming slowly, like it was moving through sticky sweet molasses to get back into full consciousness.

He was drawn sharply back into awareness by the sight of the killer standing at the landing of the stairs, and he scrambled to get up, kicking at the floor until he was up on his feet, limping as fast as he could to the door and throwing it open, running as best he could out into the open.

“Help!” he started shouting as he ran, and went to the nearest house, pounding on the door. “Help me, please!” The porch light flipped on for a moment, just a single moment, and then flicked off again, the house answering his plea with silence. He didn’t have time to stand and wait and ask again, the owners probably thinking he was playing a trick, and ran across the street, his one thought to get the children out, and out now. He fumbled with the keys at the door, casting a glance back to see where the killer was; slowly advancing towards him across the street, setting an almost leisurely pace for himself.

He started to panic, the keys nearly falling out of his hands, and after a minute of struggling he managed to get the door open, falling gratefully through it and slamming it shut behind himself, locking it again so the killer wouldn’t have the opportunity to get in.

“Lindsey, Tommy!” he called, looking into the living room; no kids. Shit shit shit shit shit—he ran upstairs, calling their names again, but they were nowhere to be found. Where the fuck could they have gone? He raced back downstairs, casting a glance into the living room, and then stopped dead in his tracks. One of the full length windows in the living room was open. It hadn’t been when he’d first checked in there. He froze, blood racing and his heart pounding loudly in his ears, his breathing all of the sudden sounding far too loud in the confined space of the hall. Jesus Christ, where was the killer? Where was he where was he where was he—John hesitantly crossed into the living room, eyes darting around as he went to the fireplace and picked up one of the pokers, hefting it in his hand as he put his back to fireplace, feeling slightly safer. Though really, not safe at all.

Silence reigned in the house for a minute as he scanned the room slowly. He could hear his own breathing, his own pulse in his ears, and it was making it that much harder to keep a level head. Calmly and rationally think about this, instead of panicking because there was a goddamn _killer_ somewhere nearby who had just murdered two of his friends and was aiming for him next and he didn’t know where Jim was or where the kids had gone—but suddenly there was a hand clamping down on his wrist and twisting and he cried out, dropping the poker. The killer was there, oh god, he was there, and John struggled against him, kicking out and trying to hit whatever he could. But the killer had hold of his wrists in mere seconds, a hold tight enough to hurt, and slammed him against the wall, using his superior height as well as his body weight to hold him down as he pressed up against him. The knife was nowhere to be seen.

John stared at him, his eyes wide in terror. His body surprisingly wasn’t shaking, his mind going somewhat calm under his fear, quietly focused by the adrenaline pounding through his body and making every one of his senses sharp, acute. Completely focused on what was going on. On the short and shallow breaths he was taking. On the heavy breathing coming from the killer that he recognized from the phone. On the images seared into his mind of Molly and Irene stretched out on the bed, that gravestone placed above them. On the killer as he leaned in close, and in a voice rusty with neglect and disuse, managed to growl out one word; “Mine.”

***

He had him. Oh god, yes, _yes_ , he had him, had him sandwiched in between his body and the wall, completely at his mercy. John had gone completely still now, freezing in his struggles in what appeared to be terror, and god, he just drank it all in. The smell of John, clean with an undertone of sweetness, the feeling of being completely pressed up against him, the sight of him frozen, eyes wide in fear as he watched him, clearly afraid to make another move. His breathing was heavier than he’d meant it to be, his excitement getting the better of him. After all, he was so close to John. So close, and finally able to _touch_ , to properly see, to smell. And this was the first time he had properly interacted with John, the first time that he’d made his presence known, and John was reacting beautifully to it. His body fit against John’s in a way that was unbelievably perfect, like they were made to fit each other. And the sound of John’s voice, when he’d heard it on the phone earlier…his head was nearly swimming, too overwhelmed to properly think at the moment. It was all he could do to just _feel_.

He leaned in close to John, reveling in the sharp intake of breath the action drew from the teen, and sniffed at the juncture of John’s throat, just scenting him for a moment. He smelled so _good_. He could drink in the scent of John all day, just stay pressed against him like this, this close to him. The mask was getting in his way though and he transferred John’s wrists to one hand so he could take it off, tossing it to ground as his curls bounced slightly, free now. Then his nose was against John’s neck again, taking deep inhales that he released through his mouth in soft sighs. He was close enough that he could see John’s pulse jumping underneath his skin, and he licked a line up his throat, getting a taste for him, then watched in delight as the jumping suddenly sped up. John tasted good too. It was nearly unfair, how appealing he was in general.

He pulled back enough to see John’s eyes, searching that sapphire blue for what John was feeling right now, and only saw fear. That almost made him frown. He didn’t want John to be afraid of him, exactly. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted John to feel, though. Happy, maybe, in his presence? After all, seeing John smile produced that funny feeling in his chest, that pleasant sort of fluttering. But at the same time, he felt drunk off of power right now, higher than he’d ever been with John beneath him like this, trapped, pliant. So what did he really want? He thought for a moment, his free hand skimming over John’s chest, noting the shallow, quick breaths that the teen was taking. Mm. High was the perfect way to describe how he felt right now.

Finally, he came to a decision. At the very least, he wanted to move John away from here, get him somewhere more private so he could peruse him at his leisure. He pulled the knife back out from his pocket, delighting in the way that John’s eyes widened, his pulse, pounding against the hand holding his wrists, speeding up again. He pulled back just a bit, pulling John with him and away from the wall. Pointing the knife at him, he released his wrists and stepped behind him, pushing him towards the stairs. John, good boy that he was, didn’t try to run, dutifully climbing the stairs that he was led to. He watched John walk ahead of him, admired the way that his muscles moved and shifted as they worked, just admiring him, really. He led John to the biggest bedroom and pushed him inside, turning him around to face him again. John seemed to be having difficulty breathing, and he splayed his hand across his chest and pushed him onto the bed. John instantly scrambled away from him, going to sit as far back as he could, his back against the headboard. The sight brought a smile to his lips, the same small, pleased one that he’d given Greg the day before he’d escaped. Ah, John was so perfect, wasn’t he? Absolutely, completely perfect.

He paused at the foot of the bed, merely studying John for a minute, letting his eyes run up and down his body, an examination, though there was little that was sexual in it. No, he was just taking in the sight of him, enjoying the fact that they were together, here, that John was completely his at the moment and not in danger of being taken away for the time being. His pure little golden boy was here, all his for whatever he wanted to do. Just his. So what did he want to do? He really wasn’t sure, actually. John was…a mystery. A present. An idol. Too many things, too many thoughts and ideas for even his genius mind to sort out for the moment. He wasn’t sure what John was; just that he wanted him. And wanted him to know who he was.

“Sherlock,” he said, pointing the knife at himself for a moment, his baritone coming out with cobwebs on it from the years upon years he’d spent in silence, not speaking to anyone. John was the only one worth speaking for, anyway. He came a little closer to him, rounding the corner of the bed, and John instantly shrank away from him, but made no move to get off of the bed. Smart boy, he knew better than to try and run. He knew he didn’t have the upper hand here, and so was taking the best route by merely submitting, giving up altogether. Oh, so perfect.

He studied John for a moment more, then carefully placed a knee on the bed, looming over him and bracing his arm against the headboard on the opposite side of him. John instantly shrank back as much as he could, which wasn’t very far at this point. He could see how John’s pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, a sign of stress, fear, and knew that his own had to be blown wide with the sheer amount of interest he had in John at the moment. John was fascinating, for an array of reasons, and he was lucky to have him completely at his mercy, pressed back against the headboard in fear and caged in by the arm on the other side of him. It was fascinating just to watch the array of emotions that flickered through John’s eyes, mostly fear and horror, but a tiny bit of confusion too. And there, when he’d said his name, a bit of realization. So, John knew who he was by his name, then. Had no doubt heard the stories, gone past the house, knew exactly what he’d done in there, the day he’d first tasted blood and started craving more. Oh, how lovely. For some reason the thought of John knowing exactly who he was made a rush of pleasure go through him, another smile gracing his lips. He never smiled this much.

He leaned in close to John, eyes darting from John’s eyes to his lips, pale pink and parted as he took in shallow gulps of air, his body producing too much adrenaline and panicking at their proximity to each other. He wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like to press his own lips to them, just gently kiss John. Maybe…maybe he could. John certainly wasn’t going anywhere. But as he leaned in to try it, John jerked away, and instantly he was raising the knife, prepared to plunge it in on instinct, and John cried out, “Sherlock—!” as he turned his face away and squeezed his eyes shut.

Oh. John had actually said his name. John had cried his name with panic in his voice, and he could very easily pretend that it had been a call for his help. A call for him to come closer instead of move away. He lowered the blade again, staring at John. Why was it that the use of his name, the thought of John using it in different circumstances, was so appealing to him? Why did he like the sound of it so much? Why, why why why why did John have this effect on him?

He stayed still for a moment, just breathing in the silence, and after a minute John opened his eyes, cautiously peeking at him. When he realized that a blow wasn’t coming he turned back to him completely, breath coming in in ragged gasps, the panic from a minute ago still working its magic. His eyes returned to John’s lips for a moment before they moved down as he gently touched the tip of the knife to John’s cheek. John froze completely still. Still so compliant, so frightened and willing to do whatever it took to appease him so he wouldn’t strike out. It was adorable, in a way. He wondered briefly if this was what most ordinary people felt like upon seeing small animals as he trailed the knife tip gently down John’s cheek, then down his chest, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. His eyes went back to John’s and found that John was looking at him, a distinctly different type of fear in his eyes. He liked it just as much as the old fear.

But he wasn’t going to do anything too rash. Didn’t want to rush things, didn’t want to push John so far just yet. Not until he knew if that was what he wanted. Or what he wanted in general. But for right now, in this immediate moment, he knew what he wanted to do, and moved in closer to John, sitting on the edge of the bed. The hand that had been braced against the headboard went to John’s hair, touching a few of the soft blonde strands gently, almost reverently. Then he leaned forward, and pressed his lips to John’s.

Yes…he liked this. John’s lips were soft against his, pliant in his terror and shock, and he moved gently against him, just a soft press of lips against lips. John didn’t do anything to return the kiss, but he’d already known that he wouldn’t, and was just enjoying the sensation of touching him like this, being in contact with him like this. Kissing him felt…nice. Yes, nice. Like standing under the hot spray of a shower and letting his muscles relax. He could feel some tension drain out of him, lost in the sensation of John’s hair between his fingers and the soft press of their lips together. It was the first time that he felt properly close to John, in contact with him in a different and, it seemed, much more personal way. It was addictive. John was addictive.

After a minute, though, it wasn’t enough. He wanted John to respond, wanted him to reciprocate this. He pushed against him with more force, making the kiss firmer as he tightened his hand in John’s hair, but John didn’t understand what he wanted until he held the knife a few scant millimeters away from his neck.

Then, oh, then, John began to kiss back, though he was hesitant at first, his lips just making the proper shape and not doing much more. It was a start, though, and he pressed his own lips insistently against John’s before running his tongue along John’s bottom lip, insistent on tasting him. John instantly tried to jerk back, but he was held in place by the hand in his hair and relented, staying still. But he didn’t open his mouth. Instead of the gentle running of his tongue along the seam of John’s lips, he resorted to a sharp nip that made John suck in a breath of air and seized the opportunity presented, plunging his tongue into John’s mouth, forcing the teen to keep it open for him as he moved around. He explored slowly, taking his time and letting his tongue run over all of the surfaces of John’s mouth, though John’s tongue retreated from his every time he brushed over it with his own.

This felt even better. Was this how Mycroft had felt? When he and Neil wrestled in the sheets did it feel this good, the physical sensations combining with the tangible high that came from being able to touch John like this, savor the sensations, hold him if he wanted to? His hand did, in fact, move, slipping down John’s cheek to his chest, then sliding behind him to the small of his back so he could pull him closer, their chests nearly flush. One arm wrapped around him like this, his tongue continuing in its slow exploration, he couldn’t imagine a better place to be. A better way to feel.

After a few minutes, though, he pulled back, looking into John’s pretty blue eyes. He read mostly confusion there, and still a touch of that fear that was holding John in place, pinning him to the bed without moving. God, he had never felt as powerful as he did right now. He had complete control over John, over his actions, and better than that, he just _had_ John. There, tangibly, in his arms. Was there a better feeling in the world? He couldn’t remember having experienced one, couldn’t think of anything that came close. Even the rush that came with killing paled in comparison, and wasn’t that amazing? He’d thought that killing was the greatest sensation in the world. He’d been wrong. John filled him with a strange mix of pleasure, possessiveness, and pride, and it entranced him at the same time as it caused a peculiar pain in his chest.

Because, really, could he have him? Where did they go from here? He had John’s full attention, had full command of him for the moment, but he’d also just committed two murders, both of them John’s friends. He would have to leave town quickly, and could he bring John along? Yes, yes he could. He could very easily bring John with him, lead him away at knifepoint if he had to. Well, at first, he would have to. But enough time spent with him and John would start to turn around, begin to develop his own form of Stockholm Syndrome and finally succumb to him. It would take a lot of time and patience on his part, as John would have to be very carefully trained, but eventually he could be trained into loving him back. He knew enough about psychology and human behavior to make it stick, and then everything would be wonderful. He’d be free, he’d have John, and he could continue to slowly explore the strange, thrilling connection between them that John seemed so eager to pull away from.

That was a shame, wasn’t it? The first thing he’d have to train him out of. He simply watched John for a moment, noting the shallow movements of his chest as he breathed, the soft sound of each inhale and exhale, the beat of his heart through the light touch of his fingers to John’s throat when he moved his hand. Having his fingers on John’s throat, even lightly like this, seemed to make John nervous, so he moved that hand to John’s leg instead, sliding spread out fingertips up along his thigh.

That was the moment things fell apart.

John kicked out at him, his shorter legs the perfect length to catch him in his abdomen with the kick, and as he folded in on himself, breath leaving in a rush of air, John tried to scramble away from him on the bed. He regained himself enough in time to catch John’s ankle in a vice-like grip, pulling sharply to tug him back towards him as he crawled onto the bed. John tried to wriggle away from him, underestimating his strength, and did manage to land a few solid blows, a surprising bite lurking under the submissive front he’d put up. But he was stronger, and better, and after a minute of struggle he landed a solid backhand across John’s face that made the teen still, dazed by the hit. He pressed his advantage and straddled John, pinning him to the bed and placing a warning hand on his throat, giving it a gentle squeeze to indicate his willingness to strangle him if need be. At least into unconsciousness. He didn’t want to truly hurt John, after all. Instantly, all of the fight drained from John, and he went slack and pliant underneath him, his pulse fluttering against his hand.

Obedience was better. He took the opportunity to express that, leaning down to press his lips to the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder. At first the contact was soft, gentle; a lover’s caress rather than a madman’s touch, and he had to admit that he almost liked it that way. Almost. Without warning, he bit down, _hard_ , sinking his teeth into John’s soft flesh. John cried out, trying to twist away from the contact, but he held him in place with the hand on his throat, biting until he could taste blood. Only then did he release him, licking over the wound he’d made and pulling back, slowly licking the rest of John’s blood off of his lips, savoring the taste of him. John was staring up at him with wild blue eyes, frightened and beautiful and scared and he felt a rush of power at the sight, a slow smile spreading across his lips that only seemed to frighten John more.

He leaned in close to John again for another kiss and this time John didn’t move away, sending a little thrill through him. John even kissed back, though it was a tiny bit and only done very reluctantly. It was still worth something, after all. See, he could be trained. It would take fear, and power, and just a little bit of sweetness, but he could be trained to love him back. He could be perfect.

The kiss was interrupted, however, by what sounded like a door opening downstairs, and in a second he was up on his feet, listening carefully. Stillness and silence, only the sound of John’s labored breathing and his own, slightly heavy. Then something small, slight, something that could usually be dismissed as the house settling. He wasn’t so easily persuaded. He turned to John, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate he needed to stay quiet, and then slunk out of the room to see if he’d heard correctly, grip tightening on the knife in his hand.

***

The house had been silent for the entire night so far, and Greg was beginning to feel a terrible heavy dread that he’d miscalculated, that he was completely off on Sherlock’s goals, his patterns of behavior. He’d studied him for fifteen years and yet, and _yet_ , he knew so very little about him. Just that there was a hole in him where a soul usually went, and that his silence wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the smile that he’d last given him, the night before his escape.   
He should have seen it coming from that smile, honestly. Sherlock never smiled, rarely showed any emotion of any kind. All of the tests on him might as well have been done on a corpse for all the reactions they got. He was silent, and still, and cooperated with all of them unless he got bored, which was more and more frequently as the years went on. It was clear that he held open hostility for most of them, though less for Greg, for some reason. Maybe it was because Greg was the only one to stick with it, the only one to keep trying after years and years and years of nothing in return for his efforts. It seemed like Sherlock gave him a certain kind of respect for that.

Respect wasn’t going to do a damn thing for him now, though. There was a fear creeping up his spine, taking hold at the base of his skull and running claws along the back of his neck. What if he was wrong? What if the worst had already happened and Sherlock was gone, bodies left in his wake and more to come? Because certainly, if Sherlock managed to evade capture, there were going to be more bodies. If Greg had learned anything about him in their time together, he had learned that killing his brother was Sherlock’s fondest memory. The one he constantly returned to, ran over in his mind with that special glint in his eyes as his brain lit up with rare pleasure. Greg had absolutely no doubt that at night, alone in his cell, Sherlock turned over that memory a dozen, a hundred times with a fondness usually reserved by children for their favorite pets. Well, in a way, he was a child. Still, after all this time. Because he’d been inside a cell since he was six, and hadn’t had the opportunity to develop like an average child, to be around his peers. Some of his issues could no doubt be blamed on that, but Greg didn’t feel guilty in the slightest. Sherlock had made his choice. He had chosen this life, by taking Mycroft’s life that night. And now, Greg was afraid of what other choices he could be making.

“Anything yet?” he asked Sally when she called him, the evening getting late now. All of the children had disappeared from the streets, the older kids long gone, and he hadn’t seen any passersby for quite a while.

“We haven’t had any reports out of the ordinary,” she said. “Just the usual, kids playing pranks and breaking things. No sign of him there?”

“Nothing at all,” Greg replied.

“Alright, I’ll be back around in a few minutes. See you then.”

She hung up with a decisive click and he put his phone back in his pocket, taking out his pack of cigarettes. Considering how the night was going, he needed one. He’d put it between his lips and was about to light it when he heard shouting, and looked to the street to see a teenage boy with dark hair, two little kids beside him as they all ran.

“Woah, what’s going on here?” he asked, stepping onto the street, and the kids stopped, the teen grabbing the front of Greg’s coat. His brown eyes were wild, a terror in them that gripped Greg’s attention and held it firmly in place.

“My friends—the girls—they’re dead, someone murdered them, I don’t know who but they’re dead they’re both dead and John—I—I got the kids out of the house but John wasn’t there and I don’t know where he is, please you have to help you have to _help_ —” The teen was halfway through the speech, an Irish lilt to it, when Greg pulled out the revolver he’d been keeping in his pocket, the one he’d prayed he wouldn’t have to use.

“You have a phone?” he asked, and the kid nodded. “Call the police, and wait here for them. Which house were they in?”

“371, but John was in the house across the street, that’s where the kids were,” the teen answered, and Greg didn’t even stay long enough to nod before he took off down the street, heading towards the house the teen had indicated. He’d been so wrong.

***

Oh god, he was mad.

It was the only thought that would make it through John’s brain, strangled as it was by sheer panic. He was trapped under the madman’s hands and body, pinned in place against the wall carefully, though currently—currently was the key word there—the killer wasn’t making any move to hurt him. The rubber mask obscured his view of the killer’s face for the most part, but it seemed like he was just watching John, observing him. Not actively trying to murder him, not trying to kill him at all.  Instead, slowly, he leaned in close, and sniffed.

John froze, unsure of whether he had actually seen that right. No, no, the killer really was _sniffing_ him, and even tore the mask off with an impatient hand before pressing close to the juncture of John’s throat and shoulder again. He hadn’t gotten a good look, but he’d caught a flash of light eyes and sharp cheekbones, the killer’s skin pale and his hair in black curls. All of that information was driven right out of his head, however, as the maniac licked a long, slow stripe up his neck. Jesus Christ. Was he… _tasting_ him? Oh god, was he a cannibal, was he going to murder and eat him, was he just going to attack him was he going to rape him was he going to kill him—

His head was spinning with questions and panic and he felt dizzy as the killer pulled back, just staring at him again. Yes. Sharp cheekbones, black curls, and pale eyes that could have bored a hole right through him, and were in danger of doing just that. The killer didn’t move for a minute, didn’t speak; just watched him, those piercing eyes catching John and holding him still, prey pinned under a predator’s keen gaze. Then, an exploratory hand sliding over his chest, the touch light, almost gentle, and if his muscles hadn’t frozen in fear he would’ve jumped. The hand slid slowly over his chest, mapping out the curves and dips of his musculature, and he forgot how to breathe. He just knew it was important to stay still right now.

And then—oh Jesus Christ, the killer had the knife out again. He tensed, prepared—not in the slightest—for an attack that didn’t come. Instead, there was a breathless pause, his heart pounding in his chest, and then the killer pulled away, pulling him by his wrists as well, away from the wall. God, the killer was actually _releasing_ him, though that fact did little to calm the rabbit heartbeat in his chest. Besides, releasing him just meant that the killer could move, pointing the knife at him and giving him an almost gentle push towards the stairs. He obeyed immediately, holding his hands up slightly to indicate he wouldn’t do anything as he walked slowly up the stairs on trembling legs, fully aware of the maniac right behind him the entire time.

He was having trouble breathing. The breaths just didn’t seem to be coming in evenly, each one disjointed on the inhale, catching in his throat before being released on a shaky exhale, and he could hear it. Could hear the killer’s breathing as well, ragged on the edge of harsh, though why he couldn’t say. Excitement? God, that could be it. The killer could be excited. The fact that he was being led to a bedroom only made that realization that much worse, and he turned as slowly as he could to face the maniac when they stopped in the room, at the foot of the bed. The killer reached out and pushed him, gently, and in a second John found himself on the bed, quickly scrambling up it to get as far away from the killer as he could. Unless he was mistaken, that was a rather amused glint in the killer’s eyes, and—yes, yes, god yes, he was smiling.

It wasn’t a human expression, and it didn’t make John feel any better. Like he was trying on expressions, rather than actually experiencing any real emotions. At least, here, there was a pause. A pause where the killer simply looked at him again, drawing his eyes up and down his body, that small smile only staying on his lips for a few brief seconds. Distantly, John noted that the killer apparently enjoyed just studying him, as this was the second or third time he’d done it. Was John really that interesting? Or was he just fixated on him for some unknown reason? God, had that been it? Had he been the focal point in all of this?

No, no, that couldn’t be it. He didn’t know why Molly and Irene had been murdered, but it wasn’t because of him. He hadn’t done anything, didn’t know why the killer was taking his slow time with him instead of just outright killing him. Molly had been—a—a mess when he found her, and Irene had been violently strangled from what he’d seen. So the killer should have done the same with him, should have given him a short, violent, uncontrolled death, and instead he was pushing him onto the bed and playing with him. No, god no. The killer couldn’t—he wouldn’t—this didn’t mean that—

“Sherlock.”

His thoughts all stopped at once as he stared at the psychopath in front of him, heard the second word he’d spoken so far. A name. _Sherlock_. Wait a second…Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes? Oh god. No, that wasn’t possible. Yes, of course, he knew who Sherlock Holmes was. The kid they always told stories about, about the haunted Holmes house and how Sherlock had massacred his family there. John had been a mere toddler at the time, and had grown up with the stories of it. When he was older he’d actually looked it up and found that it was only his brother that he’d killed, the children exaggerating it for effect and twisting the legend in a morbid game of Telephone, but still. Sherlock had gone into an insane asylum for that, he’d been carted off and locked up tight somewhere far from the sleepy little town he’d stained with blood on that Halloween night so many years ago. Fifteen, now, right?

The knowledge that this could be that same killer from legend did absolutely nothing to settle his nerves. Really, it shook them more than anything else, that same childhood fear coming back to haunt him, the one that had come back when Tommy had mentioned the boogeyman. _Don’t go near the Holmes house or Sherlock Holmes is going to get you!_ Or _Sherlock Holmes drags bad kids away in the middle of the night and does just what he did to his brother to them!_ Or that awful song about Sherlock Holmes coming to get you, because in this town Sherlock _was_ the boogeyman. And now he was putting a face to his childhood fear, meeting his boogeyman face to face.

He didn’t have time to wrap his head around it because Sherlock—god, was it really him? He was the proper age—was rounding the corner of the bed, coming in close to him again. He shrank back as far as he could in response, but found himself caged in, Sherlock’s arm braced by his head, his knee up on the bed. Oh god oh god oh god oh god—his heart was pounding so much that he was shaking with the force of it, his breathing unnaturally loud in the confined space. But still, Sherlock wasn’t doing anything to hurt him. Was just watching him, his eyes darting around John’s face like he was searching for something. He didn’t want to know what it was, honestly. Didn’t want to know anything aside from if he was going to live through this experience. If Sherlock was going to spare him, for whatever reason. Maybe for the same reason that had made him target John’s friends, but was now preventing him from hurting John. God, he didn’t want to think about that.

Sherlock’s eyes kept moving between his lips and eyes, and he held his breath. Another smile. Jesus Christ, he was never going to get used to seeing that expression. It wasn’t a proper emotion, not really. Just a terrifying movement of muscles under skin, a facsimile emotion worn as a mask by a madman. He forgot how to breathe for a moment, Sherlock closer than ever, and those eyes still darting. Eyes. Lips. Eyes. Lips. He read the intention before it happened, but he still couldn’t control his response. Sherlock leaned in too quickly and John instantly jerked away, crying out, “Sherlock—!” when he saw the raise of a knife, turning his face to the side and shutting his eyes tightly as he waited for the plunge of the blade.

But it never came.

He waited behind closed eyelids, his heart strangled with panic and his brain telling him to stay still, stay still, stay still, don’t make any move to upset the psychopath. After a minute, though, he opened his eyes and found that no blade was waiting for him. Cautiously he turned back to Sherlock, prepared to flinch away again at a moment’s notice. But Sherlock was just staring at him again. The knife was lowered, no longer held up in threat, and Sherlock was staring at him, something a touch peculiar in his eyes that John couldn’t name. He realized, almost absently, that he was breathing in short, sharp gasps, and found that he couldn’t change that. His heart was still sure that he was about to die, and to be honest, his brain was thinking the same thing.

That belief wasn’t disproven when he felt the touch of cold metal to his cheek, and realized it was the knife. He froze underneath it, paralyzed as it drifted almost lazily down his chest, the tip dipping slightly into his clothing, the touch light, almost nonexistent, and then paused at the waistband of his jeans. Then Sherlock was looking up at him, something like a question in his eyes, and John was doing his best not to panic. Oh please god let this not go in that direction. Please, please, please, that was almost worse than murder, in a way. It certainly caused nearly as much damage. And this was a homicidal maniac, and there was no telling what he’d do, and panic was clawing its way up his throat and he was having trouble swallowing it back down.

_Breathe_. Okay, he could do this. Focus on a breath in, a breath out. Just keep breathing. Enjoy it while it lasted. He looked back at Sherlock, his own eyes wide with fear and meeting that cold shade between blue and green that sent ice running through his veins. Fear was a powerful paralytic, wasn’t it? One that kept him in place as Sherlock’s hand moved to the side of his head, touching a few strands of his hair in an almost reverent way. John drew in a breath, knowing something had to be coming next, and this time didn’t jerk away when Sherlock moved forward to press their lips together.

He was…he was kissing him. The madman was kissing him. He didn’t know how to respond and settled for staying completely still, frozen to the bed and his lips slack, unresponsive underneath Sherlock’s. Yes, a psychopathic murderer was actually kissing him right now. In earnest, it seemed. There was a frightening amount of tenderness in it, Sherlock’s lips moving much more softly than John would have imagined. Gently. Like he wanted John to enjoy this as well, and wasn’t just taking something from him, getting what he wanted, enjoying this for whatever sick, twisted reason made him do it in the first place. No, there was no possible way he could respond to that, at least not one that didn’t involve shoving the maniac as far away from him as possible, and that really wasn’t an option at the moment. He really, really didn’t want to get stabbed, if he could avoid it, and letting the madman kiss him seemed to be the way to keep his life intact.

They continued like that for a minute; soft, almost affectionate contact that served to settle John’s runaway pulse for the time being, simply because it wasn’t violence. Because it didn’t hurt him in any way, as confusing as it was. But soon enough Sherlock was pushing more firmly against him, more roughly, and he thought that this was it, Sherlock was just going to take him and there was nothing he could do about it. His pulse sped up, and suddenly he got the message of what Sherlock wanted from him after a minute of firm kissing when the knife was held up to his neck. _Oh_. He wanted _reciprocation_. Of all the things for a madman to want from him, reciprocation of a kiss was not one that he would have anticipated. It also wasn’t one that he was going to argue with, though, as he forced his lips to pucker, making the necessary shape but not doing anything else to reciprocate, not pushing back against him with equal fervor, or any fervor at all. This seemed to satisfy Sherlock, and if that was what he needed to do, he would do it and nothing more.

Apparently, it didn’t satisfy him enough, though. He jerked away from Sherlock on instinct when the killer ran his tongue along his bottom lip, entreating an entrance that John was determined not to give. He couldn’t move away from Sherlock, the hand in his hair forcing him to stay in place, and he relented, staying still and keeping his lips firmly closed against the tongue running along them. _Ow!_ There was a sharp nip from Sherlock and he drew in a breath of pain, only to find that Sherlock took that as an invitation, his tongue sweeping into John’s mouth. Well, there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. He didn’t have a choice but to stay still, let the madman explore his mouth with his tongue, though he moved away from it whenever it came close enough to his own tongue.

This was sickening. Not, well, as sickening as what he’d seen earlier, the images on that bed in the house across the street, but sickening in its own way. Because this was the man who had killed two of his friends earlier and had done god knows what else, who was holding him at knifepoint and forcing him to reciprocate a kiss. A murderer. A madman. Who knew what else besides that. And he was kissing him. Reluctantly, but still. It was twisted in its own little way, and he really wasn’t positive that he wasn’t just imagining all of this. Maybe he was really dying and his brain was concocting some sort of mad alternate universe so he wouldn’t realize the truth. Or maybe this was just how horrible his reality had become.

He hardly even noticed Sherlock’s hand going to the small of his back to pull him closer, but when he did it was like the cherry on top of this psychopathic sundae. Of course Sherlock wanted him closer. Of course he was treating him like a lover, not a victim. Of course he was still moving his tongue slowly in John’s mouth, apparently savoring every sensation, every taste. He could feel bile rising up in his throat at the thought of Sherlock reacting to this in other ways, much more…physical ways. He had to get out of here, had to stop, desperately wanted to shove him away as hard as he could, but he couldn’t. There was nothing to do but stay still, accept it, and let it happen. So he did.

Thank god that Sherlock pulled back after a few minutes. John’s body had gone completely tense, coiled like a spring with a terrible kind of panicked tension that could explode at any moment. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but something was going to happen if Sherlock didn’t let go of him soon. The silence between them was breathless and tense, and he didn’t dare move in the slightest as Sherlock’s fingers drifted to lightly touch his throat. Oh god. Was that it, then? Was he going to kill him now that he’d gotten what he wanted? Was that all that he’d wanted, after all of this? Just a kiss? Or was there still worse in store for him? His brain was starting to go fuzzy with panic again, and he didn’t catch the motion of Sherlock’s hand for a moment.

The touch to his leg was what did it. Sherlock’s hand started sliding up his thigh and he panicked, catching Sherlock in the stomach with a kick from short, but powerful legs. He instantly scrambled away from him in sheer panic, trying to put any distance that he could between them on the bed and making a fair amount of progress before he felt a hand clamp down on his ankle and he was pulled back, back, back, back down to face Sherlock, who was brimming with fury. Oh Jesus, he was going to kill him—he tried to escape Sherlock’s grip but found it impossible, choosing to lash out at him instead, hit him anywhere and everywhere he could in an effort to get away. Instead of the stab he was expecting, Sherlock landed a stunning backhand that sent his head reeling. He couldn’t focus for a minute, going still on the bed, and when he came out of it Sherlock was straddling him, his hand giving a gentle squeeze to his throat.

He stopped moving instantly. That little squeeze was all it took for him to stop fighting, realizing that yes, there was potentially a way he could get out of this alive, but only if he played along and played nice. Fine, then. Done. He could do that, if it was going to keep him alive. Sherlock was staring into his eyes, searching for something—disobedience, perhaps?—but seemed satisfied. John nearly shivered when he leaned in close, pressing his lips to John’s neck in a gesture usually reserved for lovers, taken and twisted for Sherlock’s purposes. Then, without warning, John felt teeth on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, and then they were _in_ and oh god that hurt that hurt that hurt—

He twisted wildly underneath Sherlock, trying to pull his head free so he could get away from that awful bite, but he had nowhere to go and no way to escape and Jesus everything _hurt_. After a minute he felt a soothing tongue lick over the wound, the pressure of teeth released, and then Sherlock pulled back, licking his lips. He stared up at him, sure that his shock and horror had to be bleeding into his expression, because god, he was a true psychopath, wasn’t he? Not that he hadn’t known that before, but he was being reminded of it minute by minute. By every little action, every touch, every look into those cold, pale eyes. His shoulder was aching now, pain radiating out from the bite, and he flinched slightly when Sherlock leaned in again.

But it was just for a kiss, another, just as gentle kiss, and he found himself kissing back because did he really have another choice? He was completely trapped, and had no idea if continuing in his efforts to fight the psychopath was going to result in anything other than his death or maiming. Better to give in, keep himself alive for at least a little while longer so he could try to sort this whole thing out. Somehow.

The only sound in the room was their breathing, the slightly difficult breaths that came with trying to balance kissing and breathing, and though his heart was still pounding in his chest he managed to relax a bit. A tiny bit. Because, truly, Sherlock didn’t seem to want to hurt him. Amazingly. He had only threatened violence to get John to do what he wanted, and honestly, considering the dark fury he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes when he tried to get away, a bite to his shoulder and a gentle squeeze of his throat was getting off mildly. And that didn’t make any sense to him because why? Why had the psychopath latched onto him of all people, why was he giving him gentle kisses and soft touches, why wasn’t he brutally murdering him? Unless that was coming next. Unless this was all just a prelude, him playing with his food like a cat before going in for the kill. But it didn’t seem that way, which only made it all the more confusing.

Suddenly, Sherlock was completely off of him, standing again with a look of concentration as he seemed to listen to the house. John stayed frozen on the bed, listening as well; there was a slight noise from downstairs, the kind that usually came from the house settling, or wind blowing from the cold October night. Apparently Sherlock thought it was something else, because he turned to John, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate that he needed to be quiet before slinking out of the room, going into the hall.

Oh thank god. Some of the incredible tension that he was holding was released in a shaky exhale, though he stayed still for a minute. What was he going to do? Where could he hide, where could he go? After a minute of staying frozen, paralyzed by the thought of disobeying Sherlock and paying the consequences, he slowly got to his feet, casting a glance out into the hallway. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Okay, so he had a minute to act. He quickly went over to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, opening them and going out to see if he’d be able to climb down somehow; no, no such luck. He couldn’t scream for help because Sherlock would hear him, so he came back in, leaving the door open to make it seem like he had indeed left. Then he went to the closet, closing the folding doors behind himself as he took shelter inside. His eyes darted around, looking for a shirt, a scarf, something that would help, and found a tie, quickly taking it off of the hanger. He wrapped it solidly around the handles to the doors, incredibly thankful that the knobs were double sided so there _were_ handles on the inside of the doors. He looped the fabric around the handles and sat down, pulling it taut and holding it there. If Sherlock tried to open the doors, the fabric wrapped around the handles would stop him, hold him back from John for the time being. Hopefully he would buy John’s gambit that he’d gone out on the balcony, but who really knew. He seemed smart, and skilled, and completely terrifying so far. More terrifying than the boogeyman of John’s youth.

He waited in a breathless silence, making sure to keep his breathing quiet so he wouldn’t give away his location. The problem was that the floor in the bedroom was carpeted, and Sherlock had already proven himself to be completely silent in his approaches, so there was no way of knowing when he was going to come back into the room. John didn’t even know _where_ he had gone in the first place, though he assumed downstairs. The tension was killing him, the anticipation of being found, discovered, dragged out of hiding for whatever else Sherlock had planned for him. Because surely it couldn’t be just soft kisses and gentle touches. He didn’t trust that it was going to be that simple, stay at that safe level that didn’t scare him. And hiding was his best option at getting out of this, because he’d already lost two fights with Sherlock and he really didn’t know how far running was going to get him. If Sherlock was this committed to getting him, he was sure that running wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

So he sat in the darkness, and waited.

***

Entering the house quietly wasn’t as easy as Greg had thought it would be. The door made a slight noise, very quiet, though it sounded much louder in the stillness and silence of the house. It didn’t make it much better that he didn’t know where Sherlock was, or if he was even here. The other house had been completely empty, and since the police hadn’t arrived, he’d gone here, the house dark with most of the lights off. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was here, but it was better to check and be wrong than potentially let a murderer get away. And Sherlock was the worst kind of murderer. He’d found the bodies of the girls in the other house, grotesquely displayed with Mycroft’s headstone above them. It had looked like a sacrifice to some twisted god; tribute to the crimes that he’d committed to before, and an offering of more now that he was free and able to kill again.

Which made him all the more certain that he was going to find another body here. The ‘John’ that the wild, panicked teen had spoken of when he’d caught him in the street. He dreaded the thought of finding another teen body stretched out, another sick sacrifice to the act of killing, the only thing that he knew Sherlock praised. That would make it three murders, and then maybe he would stop. Run away, realize that he needed to get out before they caught him here, though he probably didn’t know that the police had already been alerted. Still, he was smart enough to know that it was only a matter of time, and would want to give himself a wide window of time to get out of the house. Get out of town. Go somewhere else and repeat the same gruesome acts, probably indefinitely. Judging by the brain scans they’d done of him when he contemplated violence, almost certainly indefinitely.

Shit. He cursed himself internally as he stepped on a floorboard in the dining room and it creaked just slightly. He paused there for a moment before continuing into the kitchen, deciding to do a sweep of the downstairs before heading upstairs. The house itself was fraught with a heavy, oppressive sense of dread, a thick tension coating the air with the anxiety bubbling up in his stomach. He found that it was less the anxiety of running into Sherlock and more the anxiety of finding another body, John’s body. God, this time he really hoped that he was wrong. That maybe, somehow, John was still alive somehow.

He’d made his way to the living room when suddenly there was a loud crashing sound upstairs, like wood being splintered apart. Jesus, what was that? He instantly went to the stairs, climbing them as quickly and quietly as he could, his gun held out in front of himself in preparation as his heartbeat picked up. Oh god, he could hear it now, the same splintering sound along with someone crying out, yelping at each hit against the wood. It was coming from one of the bedrooms, and he quickly slipped to the doorway.

Yes, god yes, there was Sherlock, hacking at the door to the closet in an effort to get in, and he couldn’t see who was inside but knew that it had to be John. “Sherlock!” he called, raising the gun, and Sherlock turned to look at him, those pale eyes steely and oh, no, that was a knife in his hand and he was coming towards him—without thinking about it he fired, the gun loud in the room and the shot hitting Sherlock square in the chest, knocking him back a few steps. He kept on firing, advancing on him as Sherlock kept stumbling back, until he was out the balcony door. One more shot and he tipped over the edge, disappearing from sight. Greg instantly raced to the closet door, hitting away the splintered wood so he could unwrap the fabric holding the door handles shut, finally seeing the blonde teenager who was inside, panicked and nearly in tears.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice loud, firm, worry coloring his tone, and John nodded, his entire body visibly shaking. Greg instantly pulled away, jogging over to the balcony to look over the side, down at the ground where Sherlock should have fallen.

There was no one there.

***

Out in the darkness of the woods, he walked quickly, shedding the dark, stolen shirt he’d been wearing. Underneath, hidden from view before, was a protective vest stolen from a security guard he’d knocked out in his escape. He stripped it off now, tossing it to the ground without breaking stride, revealing a secondary shirt, this one a mere t shirt. He didn’t even feel the cold as he walked, only breaking into a run as he heard police sirens approaching the house. As he ran he whispered to himself, tongue practicing speech that he’d avoided for years, his mind churching the same name that he said to himself as he ran.

“ _John_.”

 


End file.
